


Time After Time

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Innocence, M/M, Rimming, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Kurt, a senior, never made any friends or joined Glee club and is still being bullied.  Blaine takes over the club as a favor to Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: age difference, teacher/student relationship.

The first time that Blaine sees Kurt, he's covered in cafeteria spaghetti and making a beeline for an exit while also carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone.  Blaine's first thought is  _oh, god, is that sweater Alexander McQueen?  Travesty!_   This is, of course, before he can remind himself that he's on lunch duty, even though he technically isn't a teacher and is just doing Sam a favor taking over the Glee club while Sam takes care of his mom.

It had been one of the most upsetting conversations that they've ever had, Sam calling Blaine up and asking him if he'd decided what he was going to do with his performing hiatus, and then confessing that his mom's cancer prognosis hadn't been good, and he knows that it's a huge inconvenience, but was there any way that Blaine could come home to Ohio and supervise his kids until graduation?  They hadn't made it through the last competition round, so all Blaine would have to do is run the meetings and rehearsals and guide them through a few simple performances, some on and some off campus.

Saying yes had been a given—Sam is his best friend—but Blaine also has to admit that the idea of recharging his teaching batteries during downtime sounded appealing.  He hadn't realized, though, that the new principal would expect him to fill all of Sam's shoes—down to and including covering detention, event chaperoning, and watching the cafeteria at lunchtime.

So his first thought is to mourn that lovely sweater, and his second is— _oh, geez, my job, right._   

He follows Kurt—whose name he learns when he hears someone shouting it at him on his way out of the cafeteria—but by the time that Blaine gets through the crowd of students filing into the cafeteria, he's lost him.

The second time, Kurt is covered in what looks like Taco Tuesday, and Blaine manages to ask him, before he disappears, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” comes the terse reply, and then he's gone, yet again.

The third time, Kurt is slinking away from a locker slam, rubbing his upper arm while wincing, and Blaine steps in front of him and sets his feet.

“You aren't fine,” he says.

Kurt blinks. “What's your deal?”

It's the fourth or fifth time that Blaine has noticed Kurt, now—those  _outfits_ , that hair, that poise; who wouldn't? _—_ and the circles under his eyes and the fear in his expression don't match the rest of his presentation at all.  Who is this kid who walks around like a victim but dresses like a statement?  

“I'm a teacher,” Blaine says. “Sort of.”

Kurt's eyes tick left and then right, as if searching for an escape. “Sorry. Mister...?”

“Anderson. Hey.  I never actually see what goes down, but all you have to do is tell me who is bothering you and I'll have them taken to the principal.” He steps closer, keeping his voice low so that Kurt doesn't feel embarrassed. “Just tell me who, okay?”

“Are you nuts?  No offense, Mr. Anderson, but that would only make it worse.  I have seven more months in this hellhole, and I'd like to escape with some of my dignity—and my wardrobe—intact.”

“You should feel safe here,” Blaine says. “Let me help.  I want to help.”

“Why do you even care?” Kurt asks, walking away.

Blaine is flabbergasted—he doesn't know what to make of Kurt.  He explains the situation to Sam, despite the fact that he'd promised himself he wouldn't bring work up, and Sam says that, yes, he's seen Kurt around, but hasn't had any more luck getting him to talk than Blaine had.  Blaine supposes that it had been a victory to even get Kurt to speak with him at all.

The next time it's a slushie, and Blaine is prepared with a clean towel and a McKinley t-shirt in clear plastic wrapping.  Following Kurt into the boy's bathroom is probably against a rule, but Blaine technically isn't faculty, and he is reaching his limits in terms of watching Kurt creep around hurt or looking as if he's ready to be hurt at any given moment.  He remembers what it had been like to feel unsafe, unwanted, and unrepresented every day, and he'll be damned if he does nothing during his brief stint back in high school to address this kind of thing.

Kurt has his own towel but it's small, and Blaine isn't sure if he has a change of clothes.  He approaches slowly, making noise so that Kurt will hear him coming.  Still, Kurt freezes.  He extends the towel and the wrapped shirt.  Kurt hesitates, glancing at his insufficient supplies, and then accepts the offering reluctantly.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Kurt takes his time cleaning off, and then changes inside one of the stalls.  When he comes back out, looking appalled by the fact that he's wearing a t-shirt, he says, “Azimio Adams.  That's who slushied me today.”

Blaine's heart skips a beat. “Oh.  Oh, okay.”

_Holy crap, progress!_

 

*

 

Except it's not, because the following week is worse for Kurt.

On his way to the parking lot, Blaine finds Kurt sitting behind a dumpster, trying to put a bandage on a huge scrape down the back of his forearm.  It looks awful—he looks awful—and he's obviously trying very hard not to cry as he unwraps and fails to apply the bandage.  His hands are shaking.  Blaine shifts his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, looks around to make sure that they're alone, and trots over.

“I told you,” Kurt says angrily. “Didn't I  _tell_  you?”

“Who—”

“It doesn't matter who!  It doesn't change anything.” He tries to stand, trips over his right foot, catches himself, snuffles loudly, and then fishes his bag out of the dumpster.  It's covered in garbage and looks more or less destroyed.  Something about that seems to tip him over the edge, and he whimpers once before biting his lips shut.

“Kurt,” Blaine says softly. “Let me help you with your arm, at least? There's no meeting today.  Total privacy, I promise.”

The loss of his designer bag seems to have destroyed his resolve, and he follows Blaine silently all the way back into the school, his head ducked and his eyelids fluttering.  There's a first aid kit in the choir room office.  Blaine opens it up and takes out cotton, gauze, tape, and antibacterial spray.  

Kurt shrugs off his bag and jacket.  Underneath, he's wearing a fitted shirt and vest and brightly colored pants tucked into laced up knee-high boots.  Blaine's cheeks warm up.

“That's pretty nasty looking,” he says.

“I've had worse.”

Instead of engaging and triggering that conversational mine, Blaine tips his head toward the bag. “Burberry?”

Kurt sighs, but not before Blaine catches a little glint in his eye that says  _you must have some kind of taste, then_. “Yeah.  Ebay sale.  Ninety percent off retail.”

“Ouch.”

He focuses all of his attention on bandaging Kurt's arm, and when he's done he gently peels Kurt's sleeve down to cover it, and doesn't realize that he's toying with the button on its edge until Kurt twitches away from him.  His cheeks go from warm to five alarm fire.

“You're covering for Mr. Evans,” Kurt says, surprising him.

“Yeah. We're good friends.  I had some time off, so I'm doing him a favor.”

“I heard about his mom.”

“It's really upsetting, yeah.  I'm just glad that I can help in some way. I'm glad that he's getting to spend time with her.”

“He's nice.” Kurt's mouth twitches. “I had the biggest crush on him in freshman year.”

Blaine laughs. “Don't spread this around, but when we were in high school I had the biggest crush on him, too.  He's pretty likeable.” Kurt's eyes widen. “Oh.  That was probably inappropriate.  Sorry?”

“I won't tell your secret if you won't tell mine.”

Blaine finds this new, talkative Kurt harder to read—he's still sullen and sharp but he's also a little sweet, and Blaine wonders what's for show and what's real.

“It's the lips, isn't it?” he asks, deciding that he'd like to find out.

Kurt's cheeks go bright red. “Um.  Well.  I guess.  And he's—just nice.”

“I'm surprised that he didn't recruit you years ago.”

“Oh,” Kurt says. “I dunno.”

He smiles. “I see you following the Glee girls with puppy dog eyes. Why not join?  I bet you could make some new friends.  You don't have to be an amazing singer or dancer to join.  Glee is for anyone who wants to express themselves and enjoys music.”

“I've thought about it.  It's just—the try-out makes me nervous.  I don't know what I'd sing or  _how_  I'd sing in front of everyone.  I'm used to being invisible, most of the time.”

Blaine shrugs, still smiling. “Audition with just me, then.  Any day you like.  I have free periods, or I can stay after school.  I'd love to hear you sing.” He's pretty sure that Sam doesn't let the kids audition without peers present, but he wants to give Kurt a chance at something that might be good for him.

“Really?” Kurt asks, his voice floating higher.  Something changes in his expression, then, a relaxing of the muscles around his eyes and mouth that makes him look younger and even prettier.  He really is—kind of breathtakingly beautiful when he doesn't look like he's flinching away from a punch.

“Really.”

“Maybe.” He smiles. “Thanks.” He leaves the room with several backward steps, his bottom lip bitten in and his eyes a soft sea green.

 

*

 

Weeks pass without any significant interaction, and then one day after Glee club, Kurt is standing in the doorway to Blaine's office, looking stunning in winter boots, leggings, and a knee-length sweater with a faux fur collar.  For a moment, Blaine feels homesick for New York—and then he just feels flustered.

“Kurt,” he says, standing and smoothing the wrinkles from his pants.  His palms are sweaty. “Did you want to audition?”

“I think so,” Kurt says, his eyelashes thick over downcast eyes.

“Do you have your own music?  Or do you need accompaniment?”

“I have music.”

Blaine isn't prepared at all when he hears the opening notes of  _Defying Gravity_.  Kurt isn't the first person to audition with this song, but he's certainly the first male student who sung it in its original key, and—Blaine would collapse into one of the choir room chairs if he weren't already sitting down.  He has tears in his eyes by the time that Kurt makes that high F soar—said tears spill over, and he swipes them away with an embarrassed hand as Kurt's chin lowers and his eyes open.

“M-Mr. Anderson?  Are you okay?”

Blaine's throat is closed up.  He forces it open. “Kurt.  Oh my god.  That was—that was incredible.  Why haven't you been singing since the moment you stepped into this school?”

“I—I dunno.  I always felt so out of place, and then my dad—my dad made me join the speech and debate club in sophomore year.”

He shouldn't gush, but  _darn_. “I rarely hear voices like yours. Even in New York.”

“Are you a performer?” Kurt asks, his eyes widening. “Are you a performer  _in New York City_?”

Blaine smiles, walks two fingertips along the top of the piano, and nudges their shoulders together, using the same tone that Kurt had when he'd almost committed to auditioning. “Maybe.”

“Tell me everything,” he says, staring down at Blaine with an open mouth and a hungry expression.

 

*

 

Kurt joins Glee, though he sits at the back and doesn't say a word, not even when Blaine very pointedly brings up senior solos at the end of every meeting.  The other members take an interest in him, but it's polite and at a distance, and even though Kurt doesn't engage he does relax around them as time passes, smiling more and frowning less. Sometimes he stays after and talks to Blaine about the lesson or next week's lesson or New York or Broadway or off-Broadway or fashion, and sometimes he doesn't.

Blaine lives for the days when Kurt does, and wonders what's getting into him.  He has never been into younger men, especially not ones who are nine years his junior (though he has plenty of friends who have no issue with—and even seem to prefer—that age spread, so he has nothing against it), and even though he isn't technically Kurt's teacher he may as well be, and the intimacy feels—poorly placed.  

But there's just something about Kurt.  Despite all of his teenage surliness and what this school has turned him into on top of that, he's still the brightest thing that McKinley holds.  Blaine wants to take a cloth to his dustier parts and make them shine, too.  He's smart, funny, and painfully witty underneath all of that vitriol and mistrust and abuse.  Blaine would like to say that Kurt reminds him of himself at that age and call it over-identifying, but aside from the bullying, a love of music and performance, and sexuality, he and Kurt are very different people.

 

*

 

It's a freezing Ohio morning when Blaine finally catches Kurt's bullies in the act.  He isn't expecting it—he's on his way into the building when he spots a group of students with Kurt at its center.  It looks like they're trying to tease and taunt him out of his gloves, scarf, and jacket.  Kurt is trapped, clutching his bag and snarling defensively at them.  Blaine can't hear what they're saying, but when he gets close enough to see the steely hatred on Kurt's face he opens his mouth to speak—

And one of the boys grabs Kurt and yanks him close, raising a fist.  

Years of boxing and self-defense training come back to Blaine all at once, and he's pushing through the line of boys and grabbing the one who is holding Kurt.  He takes the boy's arm, twists it in a way that will make him extremely uncomfortable and break his hold on Kurt.

Growling, “Get off of him, right now,” isn't strictly necessary, but he isn't thinking.  The quiver in his voice shocks him, as does the look on Kurt's face—embarrassment and surprise and a little bit of awe. “Principal's office, all of you.  I know your names, so don't even try to skip out.  Move it.”

Kurt sticks close by him as they walk into the school, and he is so distracted by adrenaline and the cold and anger induced flush on Kurt's gorgeous cheekbones that he doesn't hear what Kurt is saying.

“—please.” At his blank look, Kurt repeats, “I can't—I don't want to see them, I just need a minute, please, can we...”

He reroutes them to the teacher's lounge, where he fetches Kurt a cup of water.  He's so angry that he isn't sure he can trust himself to speak, but then he sees the cup shaking in Kurt's hand and he remembers that Kurt's feelings are more important than his right now.

“Do you need anything?  Would you like me to call your dad?  The principal will want to, anyway, at some point, but maybe coming from me—”

Kurt shakes his head rapidly. “No, no.”

The only other teacher in the lounge walks out with a cup of coffee, and they're alone.  Blaine, his heart hammering, reaches over and takes Kurt's hand.  He doesn't say anything—he just sits there, letting Kurt breathe until the shaking lessens.  He lets go with a soft smile, but Kurt still won't make eye contact.  He tries to think of something to say that might have a calming effect, and comes up short.

“I was bullied in high school, too,” he says, finally, even though he probably shouldn't get this personal. “I know how it feels.” He stares at Kurt's lovely profile, downcast and puffy and red from crying. “It's okay to feel angry.  It's okay to feel scared. You—you don't deserve this.  No one does.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “And I—I'm going in there with you, okay?”

This brings Kurt's face up.  His expression is such a horrible blend of hatred, fear, and gratitude that it takes everything Blaine has to not reach out and stroke that pink cheek.  Thankfully, they're paged over the intercom and he's denied the opportunity.

 

*

 

They have three more meetings that week—with the students at fault, then one with their guardians present, and then one with Kurt and his dad. Blaine aches for them—he can see that Burt really cares but has no idea how to talk to his son, and vice versa.  But Burt is happy when he finds out that Kurt is in Glee—which surprises Kurt, who mutters something about football.

“You keeping an eye on him during all the singin' and dancin' and stuff?” Burt asks Blaine.

“Every minute, sir,” Blaine answers.  If he only knew how true that statement is.

The students who Blaine had actually witnessed laying hands on Kurt are expelled for the remainder of the school year with the option to finish over the summer, and even though it's only a few of many, Blaine can see relief go through Kurt like an electric current.  

When they walk out of the principal's office side by side, Kurt stops just as they're about to part ways and mouths a silent, sideways “thank you” that makes Blaine's thoughts go silent and his muscles ache.

He's invested.  He is way,  _way_  too invested.

 

*

 

Blaine gets the kids a gig singing carols at the King’s Island “Christmas Spectacular”, and assigns the  _Baby, It's Cold Outside_  duet to a pair of students who have been wanting to sing it all month.  After a meeting one day, he finds Kurt putting away sheet music in the choir room humming the female part, and before he can think better of it he chimes in with the male part, and Kurt looks at him, wide-eyed in his neat sweater and striped pants.  They take it from the top, straightening the room while giving each other a wide berth as the suggestive lyrics flow between them.  

At the  _Gosh, your lips look delicious_  line and every time that Blaine sings the word  _baby_ , Kurt's face goes redder and redder, until he's holding on to the piano's edge with visibly unsteady fingers.

“I may have mislaid that duet assignment,” Blaine says, and then realizes how that sounds. “I mean, giving the female part to Rona.”

“Oh,” Kurt breathes, high-pitched. “Right.” He ducks his head. “I'm not sure if I'm ready for the spotlight yet, anyway.”

Blaine's mouth twitches up on one side. “You were  _born_  ready for that.”

_For the love of god, Blaine, stop flirting with him._

Every time that Blaine thinks this, he only ends up flirting harder.  Kurt is vaguely but consistently encouraging each time, displaying youthful eagerness meshed with cynicism, which only makes Blaine more determined to know him.  Blaine knows that it's pointless to pursue these feelings—but if it gives Kurt confidence to be found interesting and desirable, Blaine is happy to suffer unrequited attraction.

 

*

 

After the holiday performance—which had been a bit messy towards the end—Blaine talks to his kids to smooth things over, and then, when he does his headcount, realizes that Kurt isn't on the bus.  He searches the parking lot, and finds Kurt by himself in the snow, bundled up and pacing.

“Hey,” he says, “the bus is ready to take off.”

“My dad was going to pick me up.”

Blaine blinks. “Oh.  Um, okay.”

“The bus is kind of crowded.”

“You seemed okay this morning.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, rubbing his hands together. “I just need some space.” Blaine realizes then that performing on stage in front of a crowd may have given Kurt an anxiety attack of some kind.

“You said your dad  _was_  going to pick you up?”

“He, um.  He can't make it.  He's stuck at the shop, so.  I called a cab.”

“That's silly,” Blaine says. “I drove behind the bus this morning.  Let me take you home.”

Kurt's cheeks and nose are apple red behind a shroud of breath plumes.

The only thing that Blaine is thinking is,  _please_.   _Please, please, please want to spend time with me._   It's like high school (and the first year of college) all over again, and he's struck dumb by both the familiarity and the newness of the feeling.  He is in so much trouble.

When the bus is empty, Blaine follows Kurt's directions to his house. They park in the driveway.

“It's just the two of you?” he asks.

Kurt nods. “I try to get Dad to date all the time, but—I guess I'm not the best person to play  _that_  kind of matchmaker?”

Blaine smiles. “I think it's sweet that you want your dad to be happy.”

_Feliz Navidad_  comes on the radio, and there's a beat of silence before they both crack up.  That had been the song that the Glee club had royally screwed up on stage tonight, and when Kurt starts doing a spot-on impression of the worst bits, Blaine laughs until he cries, and then joins in.  Kurt is flailing around so much that his hands keep hitting Blaine's, and then they're swatting each other in a playful imitation of their not-so-stellar performance, and Blaine has no idea what he's doing but two seconds later he's tickling under Kurt's arm and down along his side.

“Cheater!” Kurt cries, giggling.  

His normally flawless hair has been mused by all the movement.  Blaine reaches up and sweeps a strand of it off of his forehead, staring at him in hopeless adoration. “I've never seen you really smile before.” His pulse is slamming against his throat. “You have a beautiful smile.”

Kurt's mouth twists and then drops, and when Blaine drags the back of two knuckles down the side of his face, his eyes mist over.  He swallows heavily.  Blaine panics— _not wanted_ , god, what is he  _doing—_ but the moment when he decides to remove his hand, Kurt grabs his wrist and holds it in place, and then turns his cheek into Blaine's open palm.  Tingles race in waves through Blaine's body—it's the sort of arousal that's too much to be simple lust, a full body-and-mind sensation that hits him like a truck.

Tears streak down Kurt's face. “I am so tired of being afraid and angry all of the time,” he whispers, his tear-matted eyelashes fluttering against Blaine's palm. “I am so tired of—of thinking that I should hate what I am and what I feel.  I am so tired of telling myself  _no_.”

“Kurt—hey, hey, no—”

“No one has ever treated me the way you do,” he says, inching up against the center console. “No one has ever—made me feel the way you do.” He puts his hands on Blaine's face. “Mr. Anderson—”

Blaine opens his mouth to say  _don't_ , to say  _stop_ , and all that comes out is a moan, and Kurt's mouth is on his, sloppy and wet.  He slides the hand that he'd had on Kurt's cheek into his hair, stilling him and taking over the kiss just enough to even it out, pressing Kurt's bottom lip between his, and then gently, tentatively pressing his tongue into Kurt's mouth.

Heat, and his heart slamming against his rib cage, and the interior of the car feeling like it's getting smaller, and his cock twitching in his chinos, and Kurt panting hot and heavy into his mouth.  He can't think.  He can't breathe.  He can't remember the last time that a kiss had felt like this, like it's capable of consuming him and then spitting his bones back out.

“Kurt,” he breathes, in between kisses, which Kurt is catching on to very quickly, and oh, god, that _mouth_ , plump and sweet and so damp, “ _Kurt_.”

Somehow the intention to tack  _wait_  or  _stop_  on to that is overridden by Kurt climbing into his lap.  Blaine's brain actually shuts down—Kurt is longer than him and it's awkward, all bumping knees and bunched thighs, but he's  _there_ , warm and solid and every inch a man.

“Am I doing it right?” he asks, breathless, his voice breaking, and Blaine's hips  _twitch_.

It's snowing outside of the car—fat, sparse flakes that Blaine can barely see through the fogged up windows.  There's a hand print on the driver's side where Kurt had braced himself before he'd slid forward into Blaine's lap, and seeing it smeared long and clear makes Blaine's head go fuzzy.

He has no idea what they're doing or where this is headed.  He just wants  _more_.

“Would you—” Kurt stops.  There's hardly enough room for breath between their parted, trembling lips. “Would you come inside?  My dad said he would be a while.”

“Yeah,” Blaine breathes, bracketing Kurt's face with his hands.

They shuffle into the house with nervous, sideways glances at the neighbors, but the moment that the door is closed and Kurt's keys are in the bowl beside the door, Blaine is pushing the scarf and jacket that he's wearing off of his shoulders, thrilling at the lure of the body heat trapped beneath them, and Kurt in turn uses his slight height advantage to crowd Blaine back against the door.

Blaine had thought that given a moment of pause, Kurt might grow shy, back down, but nothing like that happens—he wraps his arms around Blaine's neck, and they're kissing again.  He uses what he's learned in the last ten minutes to reduce Blaine to gibberish, working his tongue in and out of Blaine's mouth, nipping at his lips, and scraping fingernails down the back of his neck.

“C-couch?” Kurt asks, against the corner of his mouth.

Blaine has no idea if they have the time for that.  He can't bring himself to worry, though.  He feels like the teenager instead of the other way around as Kurt leads him into the living room and draws him down onto a worn but comfortable sofa, leaning sideways into the circle of his arms and kissing him.

Something about the setting makes Blaine bolder—he's on Kurt Hummel's couch, kissing him while snow falls outside, and he has never been so turned on in his life.  He trails aggressive kisses down Kurt's jaw and neck.  He slides one hand along Kurt's spine to the waistband of his pants and curls his fingers there, pulling him in closer.  

They kiss until Blaine's mouth is both numb and buzzing from friction and stubble burn, until they've slotted their mouths, teeth, and tongues together in every possible way a dozen times over.  They're so overheated that it's becoming uncomfortable.

Kurt pulls away to breathe, finally, laughter in his tone when he says, “I—I'm hyperventilating, sorry.”

“Lie down with me?”

Kurt's forehead scrunches in surprise just once before they fall, lying face to face on their sides, a small distance between them, Blaine's hands lingering down Kurt's back to rest at its dip.

“This is the craziest thing I've ever done,” Kurt says.  The room is dark but there's light coming in from the kitchen, and Blaine can just make out the awe and joy on Kurt's face. “That was my first kiss.”

Blaine had figured.  He smiles and strokes Kurt's back. “Reflections?”

“You drive me crazy,” Kurt whispers, brushing their noses together.

“The feeling is mutual.”

Kurt's eyelashes brush Blaine's cheeks as he closes his eyes and tilts his head to bring their mouths back together.  They kiss softly, barely touching otherwise, his tongue and lips exploring Blaine's over and over again.  Blaine grows shaky past a certain point, fully erect now and trying to both ignore and hide it, maintaining the distance that Kurt seems to be comfortable with.  He does take advantage of Kurt lifting his head to breathe, pressing his lips beneath Kurt's jaw, and then beside his Adam's apple, and then lower, finding nerves that he's sure Kurt has never felt fire before.

“Oh,” Kurt says, low and surprised, and Blaine sinks his teeth in briefly before sucking the skin into his mouth, working it hard and fast until he thinks that he can feel the hickey form.  He doesn't get to admire his handiwork in the dark, but he kisses over it when he's done.  Kurt is shaking and breathing heavily.

“Mm,” he hums, kissing from there to Kurt's ear, which he nuzzles behind. “I am so gone for you—god, you have  _no_  idea.”

“I think I might,” Kurt says, high-pitched, strained.

Which is around the time when they hear a car pull up in the driveway, and Blaine shoots off the couch so fast he almost overturns its cushions.

“Oh, crap.”

“It's okay.  I'll tell him you drove me home and then you had to pee.”

“No, you—you have—”

They step into the kitchen and Kurt looks at his reflection in the toaster. “Oh crap.”

Blaine snags a scarf from the coat stand in the entryway and hastily wraps it around Kurt's neck. “Bathroom?” Kurt points, and he flees.

 

*

 

That Monday, Kurt visits him in between classes.  He stands in the doorway to Blaine's office, his head tilted and his hip cocked.  Blaine can see where he's used makeup to cover the fading hickey, and something about the sight of that in broad daylight, him with his school bag and Blaine sitting there every inch the teacher turns Blaine on beyond belief.  This sweet young thing wants Blaine as badly as Blaine wants him, and instead of feeling guilty he just feels indescribably ravenous for more.  

“Hi,” Kurt breathes, all pink cheeks and smoothed over hair and fidgety fingers.

“Hi,” Blaine replies.  He sounds like a smitten fourteen year old.

“So this is weird.”

He laughs. “A little.  Look, I'm—I wanted to say.” He glances over Kurt's shoulder to make sure that the choir room is still empty, lowers his voice, and continues, “I am so flattered that you wanted me to be your first kiss.  I want you to know that it was special for me, too.”

“Okay,” Kurt says, standing taller, “that kind of sounds like 'the end'. Did I do something wrong?”

“God, no.  I'm—I just assumed—okay.  Uh.”

“I thought it might be nice if we—hung out some more?”

_Oh, god._

Pretty much from that first kiss, Blaine had assumed that Kurt would want a singular—albeit memorable—experience.  It isn't that he wouldn't love to see Kurt for the remainder of his time in Ohio—it had simply never occurred to him that Kurt might be ready for more.  His face burns.

Kurt frowns. “If this is just about you being my teacher...”

“I'm your coach, if we're being technical about it, but.  No, it's not that.” He tries to mask just how very  _excited_  he is.  He shouldn't be this thrilled about the possibilities whirling through his head, should he? “I'm surprised.  Kurt—you know that just because we kissed, you aren't under any obligation to—to be more than that to me, right?”

Kurt's mouth slowly curls upward at its corners.  He's lightly stroking his right hand with his left just over the clasp of his bag, and Blaine's eye is drawn inexorably towards the sight. “Mr. Anderson, 'obligated' is not on the list of things I'm feeling right now.  In case you haven't noticed.” He draws his lips inward nervously, despite the accompanying coy smile. “My dad has poker tonight. Come over?”

The last thing that Blaine expects is the smell of delicious food and Kurt wearing an apron over his fabulous dinner clothes (dark slacks and a hunter green sweater).  Kurt kisses his cheek, shrugs at the look on his face, and says, “If you're going to do something, you might as well do it right.”

Halfway through dinner he confesses, “Okay, so I was sort of terrified all afternoon and when I get nervous I stress cook.  Is that closer to the truth for you?”

Blaine laughs, almost snorting Coke Zero across the table. “You are a surprise a minute.  I love this side of you.  I'm so honored that I get to see it.”

“Things have been better lately,” Kurt says, smiling deep-dimpled and gorgeous. “The bullying has slowed down.  I'm singing every day. I—I talk to my dad about some things.  I held an actual, intelligent conversation with some kids from Glee.  And there may have been some kissing.”

Blaine feels many things in this moment—joy, relief, and pride the greatest among them.  But he opens his mouth and what comes out is a breathless, “Can we talk about the kissing?”

“I think I'm becoming more a fan of the demonstration approach, to be honest.”

They forget about dessert that night.

 

*

 

They have dinner three or four times before they find the freedom to stay together longer.

Kurt's dad makes a trip into Columbus to help one of Kurt's cousins move, and even though neither Kurt nor Blaine talk about the possibility of spending the night together, they agree that it will be nice to not have to call it quits after dinner and a movie or television marathon.

Blaine thinks that he has himself together—after a week of PG dating, he's feeling rather mellow.  And then Kurt answers the door in yoga pants and a Hummel Tires & Lube t-shirt and Blaine drops the bag of Breadstix carry-out that he'd been holding.

Kurt grins. “Or we could not eat.”

He pushes the bag inside with his foot, closes the door behind him, and curls his fingers around Kurt's hips. “Oh my  _god_ ,” he breathes, pressing their bodies together.

“Hey.”

He breathes into the curve of that sweet, sculpted neck and slides his fingers up the back of Kurt's t-shirt, mapping the smooth skin of his back. “Please tell me that you're not hungry.”

“For food?  Can't say that I am.”

He groans, pushing his hands higher, rucking the t-shirt up around Kurt's torso while sucking kisses into his neck.  They end up on the couch again, side by side but not quite so far apart this time.  The room is also lit, so Blaine gets to see every curve of Kurt's body—the forever stretch of his legs, his thick thighs and round ass, and the sharp in-tuck of his waist are  _criminal_.

They go from zero to sixty in no time at all, Kurt squirming and vocal against him.  When he starts dipping his tongue into Kurt's mouth while drawing patterns on Kurt's bare back beneath his t-shirt, Kurt starts making these little high-pitched noises that drive him crazy.

He pauses to breathe, and to let Kurt at his neck in return.  He closes his eyes and revels in the attention.  Kurt has become very talented with his mouth.

Of course, this leads to the usual issue, and this time they're not keeping apart, not really, and Kurt's body is cotton-encased heat, soft in some places, hard in others, and—well.  Blaine's jeans and cardigan feel like a bit much, too heavy and thick against the smooth texture of Kurt's clothing.  He's just so  _vulnerable_  dressed this way, everything on display, warm and squirming, and Blaine wants more of him mostly because he's offering himself up in such an obvious, eager way.

Blaine slides one hand up the front of his shirt, daring to graze his nipples, and the squeak that he's given in response makes the hair on his arms stand up.  He does it again, and again, and then gently rakes his nails over them while reclaiming Kurt's mouth.  He can feel how hot Kurt's face is, and knows that if he presses his leg forward he'll be quickly taking this to the next level.  He hesitates.

Kurt whines impatiently, one hand closed in a fist around his cardigan. “M-Mr. Anderson.” Blaine should say  _call me Blaine_ , but he gets a thrill out of the way Kurt's voice stutters over this.

“Yeah?” Hot, fast, sharp, suckling the hollow of Kurt's throat to measure the pulse hammering there.

“Can we,” Kurt gasps, writhing, “please?” He slips his thigh between Kurt's knees, presses against Kurt's lower back, and—Kurt whimpers when his erection flattens against Blaine's thigh, his whole lower half going twitchy and contrary. “Oh, my god,” he says, closing his eyes.

“It's okay,” Blaine says. “You can rub on me, honey.”

“Oh my god oh my  _god_.” His hips churn beneath Blaine's hand, riding the stiff bulge that he's sporting up and down the flat of Blaine's thigh with deliciously youthful abandon. “Oh, oh, god.”

Blaine lets Kurt's hip hold his own cock in place but stays still otherwise, kissing Kurt as they grind together, working up to a frenzied pitch and then slowing down just when Kurt begins to shake.  He draws back, sweeps his lips over Kurt's rosy cheekbone, and whispers in his ear, “Did you wear these because you knew you wouldn't mind making a mess in them?”

Kurt inhales sharply, going still. “I—I don't want to—I—”

“Can I use my hand?”

“Oh, my god.” His hips surge up, seeking the downward trail that Blaine's hand is blazing along his belly. “P-please, please, please, c-close.”

Blaine would dearly love to see but satisfies himself with feeling as he slides his hand down the front of Kurt's yoga pants.  Kurt's cock is settled at an awkward angle, but it only takes one stroke to correct that—and oh  _fuck_ , his cock is big and thick and  _throbbing—_ and Blaine tucks his thumb up along the underside and closes his hand into a loose fist.

“Mr. Anderson,” Kurt whimpers, shuddering, “I can't stop, I'm gonna—”

Blaine pumps his hand once, twice, three times. “Come on, sweetie.”

“Oh,” Kurt breathes, shaking with the jolts as they uncoil, as he soaks Blaine's fingers in messy little rushes. “Oh, oh, oh.”

Blaine kisses down his flushed, sweaty temple, grinning like a lunatic. “Mm, there we go.”

“Oh, my god.” They pant together, and Blaine very carefully reaches for a tissue from the box on the table beside the couch.  He would normally be a tease and lick at the mess on his fingers, but he isn't sure how Kurt would react to that, so he just dabs his hand clean instead.

He kisses Kurt's trembling cheek. “Doing okay?”

Kurt's eyelids flutter. “Hngh.”

“I'll take that.”

But it's not that simple—he feels overwhelmed in ways that giving a quick, effective handjob should not inspire.  He has no desire to rush his own orgasm.  He has no desire to leave.  He wants to strip Kurt of his sweat-tinged clothes and kiss his skin and spread him out across a cool bed and get him stiff again and make him come slower, harder, a second time.  He wants Kurt's beautiful hands and lips on his body.  He wants to fall asleep next to Kurt and nuzzle into the back of his neck in the morning before sliding quietly out of bed to cook them breakfast.  He wants too much, as he so often does when it comes to romance.  He also knows that Kurt deserves that, and more, of a partner—but with him?  It's too soon, maybe; Kurt is too young, maybe—or maybe he isn't.  Blaine is unsure about that part.

All he knows for sure is that he wants to stay.  Why fight it?

He presses a line of kisses down Kurt's bicep. “Come downstairs with me,” he says, turning his cheek into Kurt's chest. “Come to bed with me.”

Kurt's fingers search up his back and stall on his shoulders. “I—I want to, I'm just, uh, nervous?”

“Only what you want,” he says, staring up at Kurt wide-eyed. “I just want to take my time doing whatever that is.”

Kurt's basement room is a sight to behold (he only wishes that he'd had the guts to be more himself in terms of décor at that age), but he has to admit that he doesn't take it all in—he only has eyes for Kurt, and when it's bright enough in the room to navigate around the bed, he tugs Kurt against his body.

“Can I take your shirt off?” he asks.  Kurt nods.  He does this whisper soft and slow, peeling the cotton away, and  _oh_ , Kurt is lovely—pale and lean and long, sporting a relatively hairless chest but a scattering of appealing brown hair on his forearms and a gorgeous set of shoulders and collarbones.  He holds Kurt by his waist and kisses these places until Kurt is audibly breathing faster. He pauses, presses in beneath Kurt's ear, and splays his fingers across the small of Kurt's back. “Can I take your pants off?” Breathier, more gone.  He's so hard, and Kurt feels so good.

“Yeah,” Kurt rasps, pressing closer.

Blaine peels the yoga pants—still a little damp at the crotch—down. Kurt isn't wearing underwear, so his still-slightly-swollen cock jiggles in front of Blaine's face.  He tenses, clearly nervous and unsure about his appearance, especially now that he isn't erect. Blaine kisses the sharp curve of one hip bone fleetingly before standing, curling his hands around Kurt's waist, and kissing his lips.

“You are so gorgeous.”

“Mr. Anderson,” Kurt says, seemingly at a loss.  

Blaine sits down on the bed, then shimmies back onto it, lying down.  He takes Kurt's hands.

Kurt's mouth tries to smile.  His pulse is fluttering so fast against his throat. “What do you want to do?”

Blaine presses Kurt's open hand to the curve of his cock in his jeans. “Want you to touch me.” He inhales when Kurt does as he's asked, his beautiful eyes going mossy green in the candlelight.  He strokes Blaine inexpertly, a little unsteady and very unsure, and god, Blaine doesn't think that he's ever been this hard.  Kurt reaches up with his free hand and pops the buttons on Blaine's cardigan, one by one. Blaine shrugs out of it when Kurt is done, and then out of the shirt that he's wearing beneath it.

Kurt bites his lip, staring. “I love that we're so different.” He runs his hand over Blaine's olive-toned skin and dark hair (the constant and complete waxing had gone the way of the gel helmet he'd sported in high school and early college). “Okay, I—I have no clue what I'm doing.  Tell me?”

“Undo my pants.”

Kurt fumbles with the button and the zipper, breathing shallowly as Blaine's cock stands up inside the loose confines of his boxer briefs.  Blaine shimmies out of the jeans, setting them aside but in reach.  He has condoms and lubricant in one of his pockets, just in case Kurt wants to do something that requires protection.  He's sure that Kurt has some kind of lubricant of his own—probably a lotion or a hastily purchased drug store brand of something—but if Kurt hasn't been intimate with anyone the likelihood of him having condoms on hand is low.

Kurt wets his lips and puts his hand back where Blaine had placed it.  His face is almost—shuttered, as if he's holding back.

“Okay?” Blaine asks, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

“I never realized how specific this would feel,” Kurt says, wrapping his hand around Blaine's cock through the fabric. “I want—I want it so  _badly_.  I just—want to—”

Blaine reaches down and pushes his underwear off.  He can see how flustered Kurt is.  He takes Kurt's hand and arranges it the way that he likes, encouraging Kurt's hand through the first round of strokes.  It feels incredible and looks even better, and when Kurt begins to go faster Blaine drops his hand in favor of leaning back to watch his cock grow rosy and full in Kurt's strong hand.

When an uncharacteristic bead of pre-come wells at the tip, though, Blaine isn't prepared for Kurt to  _moan_ , and he speaks before he thinks twice.

“Lick that up for me?” he breathes, rolling his hips.

“God,” Kurt groans, and slides down onto all fours and then to his elbows, wrapping his lips around the head of Blaine's cock as if he's been resisting the urge from the start.  Blaine whimpers, unprepared for the wet warmth of that mouth hungrily sucking him down.  It's a far cry from the first time that he had given his first fumbling blowjob, if memory serves.  And—he had meant to insist on a condom, even for this, but now that Kurt's mouth is there, he can't bear to interrupt.

He cups Kurt's jaw, and tips that pretty face up just to watch his eyes while he bobs up and down. “Just like that.  Breathe for me, but—oh, god, yeah, just like that.”

He had imagined having to offer quite a bit of guidance, but—Kurt is a natural.  He picks up the rhythm and the breathing so quickly that all Blaine has to do is sink fingers into his hair and hold on and tell him when to go slower or faster or softer or harder.  The sight of that wide, pink mouth growing swollen and wet from spit and friction is enough to take Blaine right to the edge in record time, especially when Kurt begins making soft little noises, whimpers and hums that vibrate down the shaft of Blaine's cock and settle in his balls.  He can't help but thrust up into Kurt's mouth, teasing the back of his throat again and again.  But it's the image of Kurt's cock, hard and bobbing between his legs from the excitement of sucking Blaine that drives him over.

“I'm, oh, god,” he gasps as he comes, surprising them both—Kurt swallows once but then coughs, pulls back to breathe, and Blaine's cock jerks and paints his mouth and cheek and jaw.  He licks out across his bottom lip, his pupils blown.  He whimpers, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Holy crap,” he says, his chest heaving.  He reaches down to touch himself as if he'll die if he doesn't. “Oh my god, that was—so hot.”

“Something hotter may be about to happen,” Blaine says, rolling them over. “Just saying.”

He blushes. “O-oh.”

“You were perfect, and now I want to make you  _feel_  perfect,” Blaine says.  He lies down on top of Kurt, tangling his arms beneath Kurt's head and pillow and settling their bellies and chests and thighs together.  He sucks at Kurt's lips, spears Kurt's mouth with his tongue, bites Kurt's jaw, and presses invisible bruises into Kurt's hips with his fingertips.  Kurt is hard but lazily so, having gone around once, and that makes them even, in some way—Blaine rocks their bodies together until Kurt is whimpering and twisting at the end of every pass, but he waits.  And waits.  And Kurt finally—

“Please,” he whines, a sweaty, flushed mess on the bed. “Please, please, I need to—”

Blaine kisses wetly down his chest, grazes a nipple, and then licks a path between his heaving ribs all the way to his bellybutton. “Want my mouth, sweetheart?” He whimpers. “Want it tight around your cock?” He moans, his hips snapping up. “Want to come in my mouth?”

“Mr. Anderson!”

“I've got you.”

He's never been this determined, when Kurt's trembling fingers card through his hair, when those thick, hairy thighs close around his ears, when that perfectly round ass rises off of the bed.  He wraps his fingers around Kurt's cheeks, hauls him up and in, and swallows him with a drooling mouth that knows exactly where that cock belongs. It's mindless and graceless but Blaine draws it out, every bobbing suck a work of art, wet, obscene noises echoing off the walls of the wide-open room, resounding with every corresponding breath and gasp and whimper.  He lets Kurt fuck his mouth, takes Kurt into his throat, and when Kurt comes crying out and hammering against his chin, he swallows every salty mouthful.  Oversensitivity leads him to suck and lick at Kurt's balls in the aftermath and he hides there for a moment, lapping at the delicate skin, surprised to have been overwhelmed by such a simple act.

Nothing is simple with Kurt, he's learning.

Kurt is sprawled out on his back, his legs folded up and tented inward around Blaine's head and shoulders, his arms flung wide and his head tilted, cheeks ruddy, and his profile gleaming with sweat.  He's smiling and laughing, pink-white-orange in the candlelight.  Blaine puts his cheek on Kurt's belly and lies there, content.

After several minutes of silence Kurt murmurs, “We didn't use protection.”

“Ah, yeah.  That wasn't—particularly responsible.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was any part of that responsible?”

“True,” Blaine admits. “But if you'd like, we can get tested together so it's not an issue.”

His cheeks darken. “If we did that, could we...not use them at all?”

Blaine's lips part and then come back together. “If—if you want to be exclusive while we're together, um, sure.”

“Do you?  I mean.  Just while we're—while you're here.  Right?”

Blaine has no idea what the boundaries are, here.  But he has no intention of dating other people in Lima over the next few months, in any case. “Right.  We can do that.”

Kurt's legs jostle with approval.  He smiles. “If my research is correct, this is the part where we cuddle.”

“How thorough of you,” Blaine says, crawling up the bed and Kurt's body. He gathers Kurt against his chest, kisses Kurt's sweet-smelling, sweat-damp hair, and breathes in deeply.  There's nothing quite like the scent of a man right after an orgasm. “Mm.  This okay?”

“Perfect,” Kurt sighs, wrapping his arms around Blaine's. “Stay?” His dad won't be back until Sunday evening.

“Nowhere else I'd rather be.”

 

*

 

Blaine gets to make Kurt those morning pancakes several times as the days go by, especially after he starts coming over to the house that Blaine is renting.  His dad seems pleased that he's making “friends”. Blaine can't feel guilty about the farce—he is utterly head over heels for Kurt, and can't imagine rejecting him now when they have so little time together left.

Lying to Sam by omission is harder but not impossible—his mom is declining quickly, and Blaine has no desire to bring Sam into his own personal drama while that is happening.  He visits them as often as he can, bringing cookies and flowers for her and comic books and a shoulder to cry on for Sam.

Glee club is a fresh torment, now that he knows what Kurt's mouth tastes like and what he looks like when he comes.  

When Kurt sings, Blaine can hear his voice above all of the others.  When Blaine sings, he's almost always singing to Kurt, even when he isn't actually singing to Kurt.  They share moments during meetings and performances when it feels like the world outside of the two of them just disappears.

They grow desperate, and become more willing to take risks.  There's one memorable hour spent in a janitor's closet.  Kurt's hand on the curve of his cock.  Kurt's lips on his neck.

“Let me,” Kurt says, opening his pants and sinking down before he can question it. “Let me.” And he's getting his cock sucked in a closet that smells like bleach by a student who looks like a creature out of a Celtic myth, who is making hungry little noises around his hard flesh, eyes closed, drained of tension because he is getting exactly what he wants.  He pulls back when Blaine gets close, licking around and under the head, his mouth shining and his eyes ticking upward. “I want to swallow.”

Blaine feeds his cock to the back of Kurt's throat and comes hard enough to rattle the shelf that he's holding on to for dear life.

 

*

 

They joke about it, usually after school when they hang out in the empty choir room until the janitor locks up because they can't see each other that night.  

“We could just say that I gave you detention,” Blaine says, offering a coy glance to Kurt, who is sitting on a chair opposite him at the piano.  He plays a few discordant “dun dun dun” notes. “Maybe you've been a bad, bad boy.”

“What's my punishment?” Kurt asks, breathy and quiet, his head tilted. He's sitting with his legs daintily crossed and his hands in his lap, his shoulders drawn tight and forward in a most compelling schoolboy way.

“Hm,” Blaine says. “Do they still spank naughty boys with rulers?”

“Ruler spanking,” he says, lifting his shoulders. “Very vintage.”

Blaine looks up in time to catch the blush on his cheeks.  

The school is more or less empty, and the choir room doors are closed. The janitor hasn't made it to this wing of the building yet.  At a certain angle, the piano can block its user from view.

Blaine is picking up Kurt's interest too well to ignore it.

“Come here,” he says, trying not to smile.  Kurt shuffles over to the piano with a put-on nervous gait and then sits, clasping his fingers over one knee.  Blaine puts his hand on Kurt's thigh, leans over and asks, right against his ear, “Does it bother you that we have to hide?”

Kurt's jaw presses against the side of his face.  He can see the pulse beating against Kurt's throat.  Kurt swallows, then exhales, and his hand lands on top of Blaine's, pressing it down. “I can't think when you're this close.” He laughs, breathless and high-pitched. “Uh—would you call me immature if I said I liked it?” Blaine runs the flat of his palm up and down Kurt's leg, and as he does their fingers lace, and Kurt's pulse throbs faster. “I like having someone that's all mine.” When Blaine slips his fingers in toward the seam of Kurt's pants, dragging Kurt's hand along with his, Kurt's breathing hitches.

Blaine kisses the side of his neck. “Me singing Britney today got you hot, didn't it?”

Laughing, Kurt snuggles in closer. “Thank goodness for heavy textbooks.  When you did that thing over the chair...”

Blaine's fingers whisper over the cloth at the inside of Kurt's thigh.  He can't stop touching.  His cock is pulsing, just shy of beginning to get hard, Kurt smells and feels so good, and he is entertaining the wildest fantasies of bending Kurt over the piano and taking him apart.  Of peeling those skin tight pants down over the globes of his ass, and maybe—maybe a spank or two wouldn't go amiss, just to start.

He inhales suddenly, and folds his hand over Kurt's bulge.  

It's been four days since they've seen each other outside of school and he can't take it anymore.

“Mr. Anderson,” Kurt whimpers, his thighs parting.

“Can you be quiet?”

“Oh my god.” Blaine picks apart the buttons and laces that make up the front of the very challenging pants that Kurt is wearing. “Oh, god,” Kurt whines, as he springs into Blaine's hand.  His face is fire engine red and he's glancing from window to window to the doors, scared but obviously turned on.

“Maybe I want them to see how beautiful you are like this,” Blaine teases him, dragging his fist up and down his cock. “Maybe I want them to watch me make you come.” He squirms on the piano bench, the hand that he has between them moving to grab the back of Blaine's shirt.

“Oh my  _god_.”

Blaine works an open mouth down his neck, twisting so that his own body is roughly between Kurt's and the door that they're facing.  He's practically hyperventilating, trying to stay quiet while Kurt pants and squeaks with his lips bitten shut, fucking up into his fist.

“I can't, I c—oh, oh,  _ah—_ ”

Blaine folds his hand loosely around the head of Kurt's cock and tugs it  _fast, fast, fast_ , the shush of fingers on dry skin, no pre-come, just the abused, gaping slit at the tip and Kurt losing it silently.  He bites down on the sensitive spot below Kurt's ear and Kurt bucks and comes, filling the cup of his hand.  Kurt ruts through the puddled mess, shaking and sucking air.

“Oh my god I can't believe we just did that,” he says, all in one breath.

“That was not what I wanted to do, but what I  _wanted_  to do would have definitely been pushing it.”

Kurt rearranges himself with some assistance. “Miss being with you,” he says, nuzzling against Blaine's shoulder.  Sam is visiting Blaine this week, and he hasn't had his house to himself, either.

“Well, there's always the motel,” Blaine jokes.

He blinks.

 

*

 

Which is how Blaine finds himself creeping into a motel room later that evening, his heart in his throat and the key card slipping in his hand.  Kurt is in bed lying on his stomach, the sheets pulled up to his waist, and Blaine is fairly sure that he's already naked.  

_Well okay then._

“Hey,” he breathes, looking at Blaine over his shoulder, and Blaine is shrugging out of his jacket mindlessly before he even responds.  

There's one lamp turned on beside the bed, spilling yellow light across Kurt's bare, milky skin, and when he moves to turn over Blaine blurts, “Don't.  Stay like that.” Beneath the blankets, Kurt's legs spread apart, and Blaine's mouth goes wet. “You didn't have to, um.” He lies down beside Kurt, atop the blankets, just to be polite.

“I've been here for a while.  I showered, and then getting dressed again seemed pointless, and then I got nervous and—okay, I'll stop talking now.”

He traces Kurt's spine from the top knob to where the sheet is resting around the middle of his back, smiling. “Hey.  Shh.”

“Is Mr. Evans okay by himself?”

“He's taking advantage of my cable package and Xbox.  I even set him up with snacks and beer—he's very happy to have some time to himself to unwind.”

“I wish his mom was getting better.”

Blaine drags his fingernails up and down Kurt's back. “I do, too.  He's everything to his dad and siblings right now, but I wish he'd take better care of himself.” He sighs. “I'm sorry, this is kind of a downer.  It must remind you of your mom.”

Kurt's expression is sad but steady. “It does.” His eyelids flutter in pleasure at getting his back scratched. “But I'm okay.  I just wish we could spend time with Sam together.  Cheer him up.”

“Maybe. I don't think—I mean, I think Sam would understand?  If you wanted me to tell him.”

His eyes widen. “You'd tell him?  About us?”

“Of course.  I'm not ashamed of you.  I just don't want either of us to get in trouble, that's all.  And I'm not sure that your dad or anyone at school would understand.”

“I'm fine with telling Sam,” Kurt says, inching closer. “Like I said, I kind of like having you all to myself.” He kisses Blaine's lips softly, and then adds, “I am very naked and you are not at all naked.”

“Give me a second.”

Blaine goes into the bathroom to shuck his pants, shirt, and shoes.  He pees, washes his hands, and then does a quick breath check before walking back out to the bed.  Kurt is still on his belly, watching Blaine approach with what can only be described as bedroom eyes.

When Blaine slides under the covers, Kurt reaches for his hand. “So tell me about this massive crush you had on Mr. Evans.  Was he oblivious? Did he tease you?”

“Oh, god,” Blaine says, laughing.  He rolls onto his side and props his head up on one hand. “No, he was sweet.  He let it pass, and then I got really emotional and sang my feelings, and he found me after and just...let me down very gently.  We were always good friends, and we've been best friends since.  He came to New York with me.  Became a model for a while, and then decided that the city wasn't for him. I stayed.  Performed.  He came back here to run the Glee club.  We make time for each other.”

“That's sweet.  I think it's cool that you guys are such good friends.”

They move on to the topic of Blaine's college and arts training, and then on to stories of boyfriends past, and before long it's midnight and they're tired from laughing and rolling around chatting, and Blaine realizes with fond amusement that they'd booked a hotel and spent the entire evening getting to know each other verbally instead of physically.

Kurt's eyes keep slipping shut, even though Blaine can tell that he's trying not to fall asleep.  Something about that just twists in Blaine's chest, like a fist closing around his heart.  He traces Kurt's face with his thumb—eyebrows, forehead, cheekbone, jaw, chin—and smiles.

“Tired, sweetie?”

“Mm,” Kurt hums. “But—want—hm.”

Blaine cuddles closer, tucking his head under Kurt's chin. “Go to sleep.”

Kurt is already there.

 

*

 

The next day, Blaine brings Kurt home with him.  Sam is packing up, looking a little less burdened, which makes Blaine happy—they hug in the living room while Kurt hovers awkwardly behind them.

Sam notices Kurt, finally, raises an eyebrow, looks back and forth in between him and Blaine and then breathes, “Oh, man.” Blaine clears his throat.  Kurt waggles his fingers in greeting. “Oh man. Yeah, I figured when you mentioned him at the beginning of the semester that there was something going on.”

“You're not upset or anything?” Blaine asks.

“It's not something I'd do but uh, he's about to graduate and you're just covering for me, so it's like, no big deal, I guess?” His eyes go distant as he adds, “I totally slept with one of my modeling coaches and she was like, almost fifty, so.”

Kurt blinks rapidly.

“That's—good then,” Blaine says, looking a little lost.

They take Sam out for lunch before he leaves, and even though Blaine and Kurt glance around nervously the whole time, worried about being spotted together, they don't seem to catch anyone's attention.  They make it back to Blaine's house just as the sky is going a darker shade of blue.

Kurt leads Blaine upstairs by the hand, without saying a word.  They climb onto the bed and Kurt settles on top of Blaine, slotting himself between Blaine's legs.  It's warm and jumpy from the start, ripe with an eagerness that speaks to the time they'd “wasted” last night. And when Kurt reaches around and pushes Blaine's hands from his back to his ass, Blaine gets the message loud and clear.

Blaine huffs out a noise of surprised pleasure and squeezes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kurt breathes.

They make out for what feels like hours, Blaine kneading the flesh of Kurt's perfect ass in time with nips to his mouth and sweeps of tongue, digging his fingers into the seam of Kurt's pants, pressing it hard in and down against Kurt's crack and hole.  Before long, Kurt is panting and riding back against his hand, alternating that with shoves of his hard-on against Blaine's.  It's sticky and glorious and not enough, reminding Blaine of so many high school grinding sessions that had been the beginning, middle, and end of most of his early sexual experiences.  It's incredible to revisit that feeling with Kurt, who makes him feel that age all over again, and yet—not.

Kurt whimpers, and continues to whimper, rutting their cocks together faster. “Mr.—”

“Blaine,” he blurts. “Call me Blaine.  Want to hear you say it.”

“B-Blaine,” Kurt whines, clawing the bed beneath Blaine's head. “I'm gonna come if we don't stop.”

Blaine pins three fingers against Kurt's hole through his clothing. “Do you want more—of that?”

“Yes,” Kurt says, his ass rocking against Blaine's fingers. “God, yes.”

Blaine grabs the lubricant from the nightstand, slicks a finger, and says, “Take off your pants?”

They only get as far as Kurt's knees before Blaine can't take it anymore and wraps his hands around Kurt's ass cheeks to spread them, making his pants and underwear tangle, and he lets out this choked up moan that makes Blaine's cock jump, and Blaine searches down his crack with that finger, thrilling when he grazes warm, sensitive skin and earns another whine.

“Fantasized about this so many times,” he says, circling, circling, circling, Kurt's pucker twitching under his fingertip, “god, want to be inside of you so  _badly_.”

Kurt's hands flatten and search the bed at their sides, his chest heaving. He spreads his knees on either side of Blaine's legs and arches up. “I want to go all the way,” he says into the heavy silence, his cheeks flaming red, “I want—please, we got tested, we're clean, we can just—”

Blaine exhales audibly, stroking between his cheeks. “Right now?”

“Don't want to wait,” he says, rolling them over and shimmying out of his shirt and pants. “Want everything with you.”

“Hand me a pillow?” Blaine wedges the pillow under his ass and then pauses, just long enough to notice the frantic but tense wanting on his face. “Hey.  Hey, come here.” Blaine presses him down into the bed, kissing him, one hand between them, skirting wet with lubricant over his flat belly and through his pubic hair, past his cock and balls to the quivering heat below. “Lift up, sweetheart. That's it.”

“I did this to myself,” he says, pink cheeks, flushed forehead, pupils blown, “I mean, a little, I—wanted to kno—oh.  Oh, oh, god.”

Blaine presses one finger inside, slowly and carefully, hooking it just right.  He can't think beyond getting  _inside_ , beyond knowing the hungry, hot clamp of Kurt's ass around some part of him.  He rocks the digit in and out, smearing lubricant and forcing muscle to adjust.  He stares down at Kurt's awed, frozen face, at how he's biting his lip, and at the tremor of his pulse at his throat.

Kurt's hands fumble over Blaine's clothes, and they slow down reluctantly to finish that job.  Blaine gets another squirt of lubricant, kneels between Kurt's legs and just  _gawks_  at the sight of him pale-pink-flushed and naked, his legs folded and his feet flat on the bed, his cock rock hard and red at the tip, leaving smears on his belly, and when Blaine nudges two fingers back inside of his stretched hole it jumps, welling white and cloudy at the slit.

He whimpers. “So close.”

Blaine plants a thumb on his perineum and works the two fingers that he has inside in and out, faster and faster, until it's all just wet squelch and blurred movement.  Kurt wails, his legs spreading farther apart and his back bending.  Blaine finds his prostate, swollen and spongy, and rubs against it.  His chest hitches, and he lets out a series of staccato whimpers and squirms up the bed, almost away from the touch, as his cock throbs and spills, untouched, up between his ribs, again and again and again.

“Oh my god,” he sobs.  

The sheen of come glistening all the way up to his collarbone is mesmerizing.  Blaine thumbs through a streak near his bellybutton, and feels the animal urge to be inside of him rise, hungry and sharp. Without asking, Blaine hooks Kurt's knees over his shoulders and leans down to kiss his trembling, parted lips.  He grasps that sweet, round ass and hauls it higher and closer.  He pushes lank strands of hair off of Kurt's forehead and temples, kisses down his neck to his ear, and nibbles the hot lobe there.

“Wanted to be your first the moment I saw you,” he confesses, shaking, rutting his cock between Kurt's sticky cheeks.  He's always been a sex babbler, and he isn't surprised when the next thing he blurts is, “So in love with you.  God, I am so fucking  _in love_ with you—”

He hears the sob but doesn't see the tears until he's pressing himself inside of Kurt, and—he has to admit that the sight only makes him surge harder.  Kurt is stunningly beautiful, especially with tears streaking down his temples to dampen the pillow below.

“Are you—honey, what's wro—”

“Don't stop,” he gasps, wrapping his arms and his legs around Blaine's body. “Don't stop, don't stop, f-fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” Blaine buries his face in Kurt's neck, cradles the back of his thigh in one hand and does as he's told, rocking, grinding, and finally pounding in when the glide becomes slick and easy, a blind drive to please taking Blaine over.  He feels less than he should because he can't stop focusing on Kurt's emotions spilling over.  It's tight, and hot, and wet, too good, too fast, and before he can call out a warning he's hitching up on his friction-burned knees and filling Kurt's ass with come.

Shaking fingers on the back of his neck, tangling in the sweaty hair there, down his shoulder blades, making him shiver.  Kurt is a silken fist around his flagging erection, throbbing throbbing throbbing.

Kurt shakes, curls up into him, fingers digging into his back.  Every clasp screams  _don't let go_  and Blaine doesn't, wraps himself around Kurt even as he goes soft, even as the mess beneath Kurt's ass begins to leak out and smear across the sheets.  Neither of them care.  Kurt snuffles into his neck, trembles until his own body gives it up and then just lies there, wrapped around him.

“I have to go home,” Kurt says, minutes later, his voice a wreck.

“Please don't.”

“My dad—”

“Tell him you're sleeping over a friend's.  I'll drive you to school tomorrow.”

“Blaine.”

Blaine pushes his fingers through Kurt's hair, kisses down the soft, warm curve of his shoulder with implacable urgency. “Stay with me. Please, stay with me.”

“Okay,” Kurt says, tilting his head back as Blaine kisses up his neck. “Okay.”

They takes turns in the bathroom cleaning up, and when Kurt comes back flushed and looking as if he'd discovered something new in his reflection, Blaine is there to soothe the newness from his long, lovely limbs, to gather him up and then let him go when he needs space to fall asleep.

 

*

 

Blaine wakes up in the middle of the night to Kurt's mouth searching down his body, and comes fully awake when his cock slides, soft and floppy, past Kurt's lips.  He inhales, twists—and Kurt pins his hips and sucks him, determined and focused, until he's hard.  It's a shock in the dark, Kurt straddling his waist and sitting back on his thighs and getting lubricant all over them.

“Want to do it again,” comes the raspy declaration.

His eyesight is adjusting to the dark after absorbing the few stripes of moonlight that have fallen across the floor, and oh,  _god_ , the sight of Kurt naked, wanting, and moving on top of him, the blankets draped around Kurt's hips and tiny waist, Kurt's lean torso and those wide shoulders—Blaine grasps Kurt's thighs and holds on as he sits down, working Blaine's cock back inside of him with a little difficulty.  He winces, but when he's settled the wrinkles in his forehead smooth out and he sits up, dragging the cock inside of him out to the tip.

“Feels so good,” he breathes, his head fallen back, his fingers scrabbling along Blaine's chest. “Oh, god, it feels so  _good_.” He slows down, making the bed squeak as he rocks his body, fucking himself on Blaine's cock, slow and deep.  Blaine just lets him, doesn't even reach up to touch him or soothe him, just watches his cock bob in front of him, stiff and full and growing more so with every rise and fall.

Kurt leans back, stretching himself from thigh to collarbone, puts one hand on the bed between Blaine's spread legs and  _fucks_  down, hard and fast, wrapping his other hand around his cock.  Blaine's vision goes fuzzy—it's too much, he can  _see_  his cock sliding in and out of Kurt's ass—and he grasps Kurt's thick thighs and rides every thrust.  

Kurt comes slow and thick minutes later, dribbling all over his knuckles and wrist and forearm.  Blaine sits up, wraps his arms around Kurt's waist, rolls them over, presses Kurt onto his side and then his belly and drags his hips up, pushing back inside of him.  He gasps, presses his cheek into the bed as Blaine keeps fucking him, his hands fisting the blankets and his ass in the air.  

Blaine gracelessly comes with a bitten off cry, bent over Kurt's glistening back.  He bends low to kiss the back of Kurt's head, running his hands up Kurt's sides. “Okay?”

“So okay,” Kurt gasps, flattening himself under Blaine.

“You have to be sore by now.”

“Don't care.”

“Time is it?”

“Four...something.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah.” Kurt's back pushes up against his chest with every shaky breath. “Did you mean what you said before?  Or was that just...sex talk?”

Blaine's face goes hot. “I meant it.”

Kurt rolls over, laces their fingers, and pulls Blaine close. “After I graduate, you're going back to New York.” Blaine nods. “And I'm going to the University of Lima.”

“You—yeah, that's what you've said.”

Kurt's lips graze his collarbone. “I think I'm in love with you, too.  I just don't know what that means.  Or what I'm supposed to do.”

“Be with me,” Blaine says, into the darkness. “Just be with me right now.”

 

*

 

It's Blaine who gets clingy as the weeks disappear behind them—Kurt is in every lesson plan, every performance, every class, even when it's so subtle that even Kurt himself misses the message.  

After the holiday they begin sneaking around the school, taking risks that they never thought they would be willing to take—kissing in closets and empty classrooms and in the parking lot after dark, and one glorious lunch hour spent in the teacher's bathroom with Blaine on his knees and Kurt's cock in his mouth.

They do things that they've thus far shied away from in the bedroom during these frantic meetings.  

The first time that Kurt begs for Blaine's mouth  _lower, lower, please, right there_ , and Blaine presses him back onto the lip of the sink in the single stall bathroom and pushes his knees up to his chin, his pants and underwear shoved down around his thighs, and licks him open, his boot-clad feet perched on Blaine's shoulders, digging in and causing pain that gets Blaine hard so fast it makes it him dizzy. Later, in the parking lot, he trails a fingertip down Kurt's back and asks, “Did you like that?” and Kurt sort of squeaks and Blaine takes him home, bends him over the back of the sofa, and does it again.

The first time that Kurt pins Blaine to a closet door and ruts against his ass and murmurs, “Want to fuck you, can we switch?  Do you like to be...?  Oh, god, your  _ass_ ,” and Blaine comes fucking the heel of his own hand through his pants after Kurt comes shoving his clothed cock against his ass because he can't stop himself after  _that_  confession.

The first time that Blaine discovers a travel-sized bottle of lubricant in Kurt's pocket, Kurt panting as he rolls his pants down under his cheeks and tugs Blaine against his back and pushes that gorgeous, round ass back and breathes, “Can't wait,” and impales himself on Blaine's cock right there in the dark, abandoned choir room office. Blaine fucks him, rough and fast, over the desk, thrilling at every squeak-groan-slide as the wood inches across the floor, as things topple over and papers slide everywhere.  He grips the edge of the desk and takes it like he was born to, his grunts filling the air.

But what breaks Blaine is the aftermath—Kurt sitting on the desk with his ass hanging out, messy and not caring at all, his soft skin and the way that he smells after he comes, Blaine's hands on his waist and their lips meeting gently, breathing in laughter, Blaine murmuring loving nonsense down the curve of his neck, not holding back because time is short and he has to make this matter.  

 

*

 

A month before graduation, they almost get caught—Burt runs into one of Kurt's Glee friends at the grocery store on a late night ice cream run, a friend whose house Kurt is supposed to be sleeping over.  Kurt gets a call from his dad right in the middle of things, Blaine two fingers deep inside of him and his cock throbbing against the mattress, and he has to leave then and there with several creative lies already being constructed.  

After that, it becomes more challenging to explain every expression of his recently blossomed “social life”.  Lying to his dad makes Blaine feel awful.

“We can't tell him,” he says, when Blaine admits this. “He just sees you as my teacher—if he knew—Blaine, it wouldn't work.”

“After you graduate, then.”

There's a horrible beat of silence, Kurt toying with the magazine that he'd been reading cross-legged on his bed, and then, “What's the point of that?  After graduation it'll be over.”

Blaine's chest hurts. “Of—of course.  Right.”

His face is bright red. “Well, you're leaving.  I mean.  That's what we talked about.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, looking everywhere but at his face. “Yeah.”

 

*

 

The first time that Kurt fucks Blaine, he only lasts for a few minutes, and then spends the rest of the evening with his face in a pillow, groaning, “No, don't look at me.  I'm so embarrassed!”

Blaine uses the next three hours to show him what a second wind and a cock ring can do, and the following morning Blaine wakes up sore and purring, Kurt a dead weight beside him in his bed.  Going slower had definitely been preferable, both in terms of making Kurt last and preparation—Kurt is a big boy.  Blaine lavishes Kurt's sleeping form with kisses but doesn't wake him up.  

He prepares a light breakfast, coffee and fruit and granola and yogurt, and they eat standing up in their underwear, kissing between bites, and staring out over the backyard through a kitchen window.

Graduation is three days away.

Kurt drapes his arms over Blaine's bare shoulders from behind, rubbing their bodies together just for the pleasure of skin to skin contact, and feeds a slice of melon between Blaine's lips.  He puts his cheek on Blaine's shoulder blade and breathes out, warm and slow.

“I don't want you to go,” he says.  

He's never said anything like that before.  Blaine's throat closes up.  

The ironic thing is, Blaine does want to go home.  He misses performing, his friends, and New York.  He just doesn't want to leave Kurt behind.  He has no idea how to combine those two desires, though. The pain that he feels at the thought of never seeing Kurt again, never having him just like this again, is unbearable.  Should he begin to force himself to get over this, as he has several “summer flings” before?  It's never easy for him—he is a hopeless, determined romantic—but adulthood has beaten into him the acceptance of the necessity of occasionally letting go.

He puts his arms over Kurt's. “Let me drive you home.”

 

*

 

Graduation is a whirlwind, and they lose touch with each other in it.  

After the insanity has passed, Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand and tells him to go out with his friends and dad to celebrate.  Blaine only has a few days left in Lima.  His rental is packed and his plane ticket is booked.  But it's important that Kurt enjoy his graduation—he has friends, now, and maybe even a new dream, and Blaine doesn't want to muddy those waters with their complicated entanglement.

The day before he leaves, Kurt comes over right after breakfast.  He shrugs off his bag in the doorway, leans against it, and smiles, but the smile is crumpled at the corners.  Blaine finishes his coffee. He doesn't want to have this conversation.  He has no idea how to even begin saying goodbye to Kurt.

“Bathroom,” Kurt says, “be right back.”

Blaine nods.  Puts his mug in the sink.  Picks up Kurt's bag and sets it on one of the kitchen chairs.  The front flap is open and he absentmindedly pushes it closed, but not before he notices the bright, colored folders inside, each labeled with the name of a different New York performing arts school.  

He freezes.  He hadn't meant to look.  His heart begins to race.  It's too late for Kurt to have made the application deadlines for the upcoming semester, but...

Kurt catches him zipping up the pocket.

“I didn't mean to,” he says, standing up straight. “Your bag was open.”

“It's okay.  I came here to tell you about it anyway.  I've already applied for the spring semesters at those colleges and some others that are slightly less local.  I probably won't make the short lists, but next fall I'm bound to get into one or several of them.”

“What changed your mind?”

Kurt smiles, taking Blaine's hand. “You think I'm going to say that it was you.” He shrugs. “It's not unrelated.  You reminded me of the dreams I used to have—the ones that my mom always encouraged me to have.  You reminded me of how incredible I feel when I perform. Choosing to stay here was just—fear.  Not feeling good enough. Feeling like my dad was the only thing that I could depend on.  Not knowing if I even had the strength to go, start a new life in such an intimidating place.  New York has always been where I wanted to be. I just convinced myself that the whole idea was impossible.  But now I have a year to save money, plan, apply for scholarships and assistance...  And, well.” He smiles again, lifting his eyes to Blaine's. “You  _do_  make anything feel possible.”

Blaine's eyes glaze over.  He looks away. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll meet me for coffee in a year.”

“That long?” he asks, swallowing heavily and forcing a smile that's all pain.

Kurt's brow wrinkles. “You have a life in New York.  Where would I fit in?”

“I'd like to find out.” He exhales, his eyes swimming with tears. “But I'd like you to—have a life, too.  So a year it is.”

Kurt leans in and brushes his lips across Blaine's. “One for the road?”

Blaine laughs and cries at the same time, all the way up the stairs.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Blaine checks out the guy in front of him in line at the coffee shop for the full duration of their journey to the pick-up counter, and only realizes when the barista calls the name “Kurt” and the guy turns to allow Blaine a glimpse of his profile that this guy he's been eying is the person who he's here to meet.  

For a moment, the disconnect between the Kurt who he had known so well and this man is dizzying.  It's only been a year—and Kurt's outfit is as attention grabbing as any he'd worn in Lima—but the city has clearly polished him, given his flawless looks and “you are all beneath me” expression depth and character.  He looks like he  _belongs_.  Seeing him so settled takes Blaine's breath away.

Blaine hesitates, suddenly nervous.  They've touched base often enough over the last year and a half to ensure that they could always contact each other—there had been new emails for them both and a number change for Kurt—but little more.  They had both agreed that distance would be necessary if they wanted to live distinct lives, that “just friends” would never work—and the arrangement had been strangely easy to adapt to.  Blaine had mourned hard for a few months, but wanting Kurt to flourish on his own had overridden that in short order.  And Kurt—well, Blaine doesn't think that Kurt  _needs_ him any more than he  _needs_  Kurt, really.  He's sure that they have both managed quite well apart.

This line of thinking had been all very well and good twenty minutes ago, before he'd laid eyes on Kurt.  Now, his insides feel like poorly set Jell-O and his knees don't seem to want to cooperate with the rest of his body.  He remembers all at once what it had been like, falling for Kurt as quickly as he had, never quite sure what they were but feeling so strongly that it hadn't seemed to matter.

“Blaine?” Kurt calls, spotting him.  He wonders what he looks like to Kurt.

“Kurt.” He makes himself move.  Sit down.  Reach for Kurt.  They clasp hands on the tabletop, friendly but not intimate.

“Oh, my god, you look great,” Kurt says, animated, pink-cheeked, lovely. His voice is just a scratch lower and his whole posture more mature, more settled, more  _I am owning my space_.

“You look  _amazing_ ,” Blaine says, not letting go of his hand. “Wow.  This is—crazy.”

“How have you been?” he asks. “Tell me everything.”

Blaine laughs, and then rattles off a list of the shows that he's been performing in and consulting on.  There have been several—he's been busy, and very creatively satisfied.  Kurt responds with school stories, and he soaks up every anecdote with pleasure.  Kurt is living his dream, and Blaine is so happy for him.  Finally, there's nothing left to discuss but family and personal life—and when family is checked off, Blaine tackles the former without hesitation.

“How's the dating pool at NYADA these days?” he asks, going for coy and failing miserably.  

Kurt humors him with a smile. “Ah, not too shabby,” he says. “I had a boyfriend for the first six months or so.  His name was Adam.  He ran a show choir at school.  He was really sweet—we went to London together, saw lots of shows, sang duets.” Kurt sips his coffee, lowers his voice, and smirks. “Sexy accent.  Sexy everything, to be honest.”

Blaine clears his throat. “'Had'?”

“It didn't work out.  He had plans to move back to England after graduation.  What we had just didn't stand up to the long distance check, I think.  We sort of mutually broke it off.  No drama.  Or, well.  Very little drama.  I wasn't  _quite_  welcome in the show choir after that.” He smiles, shrugs. “I've dated since.  Just haven't found anyone worthy of long term.  You?”

“I went out with a co-worker for a few months a while back,” Blaine says. “Big mistake.  Got burned and have kept it casual since.”

He watches Blaine over their coffee cups, calm and collected.  The silence is like a bubble around their table, making Blaine's ears ring.  He's seconds away from nervous laughter and fidgeting, and then—

“See, the thing is,” Kurt says, shifting around, “I never quite got over this guy I fell for just before I graduated high school.” His pulse pounds in his ears. “And he asked me out for coffee recently, and I discovered that we're both single, and even though I know that it's silly to think things might be the same, I can't pretend that I don't feel just as drawn to him as I did back then.  I kind of want to ask him out for dinner or a drink and see where it goes, but I'm not sure if that's a good idea.  I don't want to jump the gun.  Maybe you could give me some advice, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine deflates, and reaches for Kurt's hand again. “I'm not very good at this, am I?”

“When I saw you standing there, it was like an out of body experience,” Kurt says, squeezing Blaine's hand. “I felt—god, it was like stepping back in time, only—I'm me.  The person who I always wanted to be.” He sighs. “I feel like there's a tether between you and me, somehow, someway.  I mean, I don't even believe in that crap, but…” He slowly rotates his hand until their fingers lace, and a  _zing_  of sensation shoots up Blaine's arm. “I am so, so glad that we spent time apart, because I learned so many things, and we're on more equal footing than we were.  That's—that's what I want us to be, if we're together.  And I'm not saying that that's where this is headed.  But there's a chance that it could be—and if I've learned anything since moving here, it's that you don't let chances pass you by.  You take them, whenever and wherever you can.  So—will you have dinner with me?”

“I would love to,” Blaine says.

 

*

 

Halfway through dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Japanese place, they're playing footsie under the table, and Blaine is home, and knows it with a surety that makes his stomach lurch.  

(And if you were to ask him in ten years when he knew that they were never going to be apart again, he would tell you that it had been the moment he'd spilled sake on his shirt when Kurt's toes had traced the back of his calf all the way to the crook of his knee.)

He knows it as he holds Kurt's face in his hands and kisses him, sweet and chaste, in front of his dorm after dropping him off.  He knows it when they have drinks two days later and Kurt twists against him on the dance floor, as goofy and uncoordinated as he ever was.  He knows it when Kurt's hand creeps up his thigh in the back of a taxi on the way home.  He knows it when Kurt hooks a fingertip behind his bow tie and pulls him over the threshold of his own apartment as if Kurt owns the place.  He knows it when Kurt pushes him down onto the bed and proceeds to show him exactly how well Kurt has learned to fuck another man into the mattress in the year and a half that they've been apart.  He knows it when Kurt stays, one leg thrown over his naked, sweaty, trembling body, without asking or awkwardness.

He knows it a year later when Kurt moves into his apartment.  He knows it when Kurt arranges fresh fruit on a plate for breakfast every Sunday morning with a satisfied sigh.  He knows it when Kurt kisses him goodbye in the morning.  He knows it the first time that Kurt says “I love you” without him having to say it first.  He knows it through their fights (the small and the not so small), and especially through the one that leads to the breakup that keeps them apart for several months during Kurt's junior year.  He knows it when they make up, murmuring apologies that only time and mistakes could have honed.  He knows it when Kurt is there for his shows and he is there for Kurt's.  He knows it when they catch the right attention and are offered a duet role in a show that's written specifically for them.  He knows it when he realizes that he needs therapy, and maybe more—and Kurt confesses the same.

He knows it when they move into a nicer apartment.  He knows it when a ring box is burning a hole in the pocket of his slacks and Kurt is staring at him over the dinner table that he's set up on the roof of their apartment building.  He knows it when he watches the fairy lights shine in Kurt's eyes, the skyline a riot of light and color behind him, as he says  _yes_.  He knows it when Burt walks Kurt down the aisle and gives Blaine a look that says  _don't think I didn't know about those months during high school, kid_.  He knows it when Kurt is infected by baby fever after their fourth successful year on Broadway.  He knows it when they find the perfect surrogate and spend the next nine months panicking, and then the following twelve exhausted, cranky, and yet the happiest that they've ever been.

But Kurt would say that Blaine has known it since day one.

“After all,” he adds, smiling crookedly, “I know I did.”


End file.
